


The Morning Dew Betwixt Thine Thighs

by sumomomochi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, FTM Karkat, Humanstuck, M/M, Other, Trans Karkat, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had thought he’d been so adamant about you coming over after school today to ask you out.</p><p>And instead he gives you a fucking dick in a box and you tell him to take off his pants.</p><p>Fucking great.</p><p>Wow you suck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning Dew Betwixt Thine Thighs

**Author's Note:**

> ambiguously high school aged davekat with a title that does not match how adorbs the fic is ngl

The fuckhead’s waiting for you after school, ass leaned against a planter with his legs stretched out, ankles crossed. John’s nowhere to be seen, which is strange, but Dave perks up immediately when he sees you, slinking up straight and you almost punch him purely because he’s so fucking tall and you’re a short ass, spiteful motherfucker with an uncomfortable crush.

“‘Sup,” he says, “Got you a thing. Wanna come home with me?”

You don’t punch him. You do elbow him in the ribs when he decides to use your head as an armrest, which is fucking dumb because you’re not _that_ short. 

He steers you to his shitty ass car and then he steers his shitty ass car back to his little house. He throws the coup into park, grinding gears hard enough to make you flinch in sympathy, and twists towards you. One hand is braced against the dash, the other wedged between the seats as he leans in towards you.

“Hey babe, how ‘bout it, can I get a little kiss?”

You can feel his breath against your face, hot and sweet and fruity.

“God damnit Strider, I will punch you in the dick.”

He wheezes a little laugh, lungs rattling as he pulls away, slithering out of his car. You do the same, except you’re not graceful about it; You haul yourself out, dragging your bag with you, and slam the door too hard. 

Whatever. You know Dave doesn’t give a shit.

He lets you into his house with a sweep of his arm, giving a little bow like a real fucking gentleman and you narrow your eyes at him. He just grins, following you almost too close. The little plaque hanging off the inside doorknob clacks against the door when he shuts it and he says, “C’mon, it’s in my room. Didn’t want Gran to accidentally open it.”

You know the way to his room by heart, lifting the knob when you turn it so his door actually fucking opens and you think you can feel the heat of his skin behind you. He slides by you without a fucking sound, scooping the nondescript box off his desk to present it to you with a flourish. He even flicks out his pocket knife, handing it to you by the blade. You tear into the box and inside..

Is a dick.

Dave Strider gave you a fucking dick in a box.

“Figured the big one would match your redonk cojones, but I have no fucking clue why they only offer the really pink one, like what. Do trans dudes only come in one flavour; it doesn’t even match _my_ skin and I’m pasty as fuck.”

“Strider, shut up.”

His teeth snap shut audibly and he’s gone pink around his shades.

“Did you seriously buy me a fucking packer?”

He shrugs and it’s almost hilarious how awkward he is about this. You lean up to peck him on the lips and his blush crawls down his neck, clear down to the collar of his shirt. You snort.

“What, can’t a guy buy his friend a dick?”

“Depends on if you seriously think I’m gonna fuck you for it.”

He gapes and sputter, “No I just, I -- “

“Dude, you’ve been trying to get into my pants since we were kids.”

“Lies and blasphemy,” he tells you, “Don’t listen to a thing my Gran says.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Take off your pants.”

“What?”

You roll your eyes, exhale hard through your nose. You can feel how hard you’re blushing. You’re very careful with your enunciation when you say, “Take. Off. Your. Pants.”

He strips off his shirt first then shoves his jeans down, toeing off his shoes when his pants get stuck around his ankles. He’s already pretty obviously hard.

“You were saying?”

He snaps, “Fuck you,” but there’s no vitriol in it.

“Yeah,” you snort, “Sort of the plan isn’t it.”

He looks away, frowning towards his shoulder.

“I didn’t, I’m not trying to buy my way into your pants,” he tells you, quietly, refusing to make eye contact even through the stupid sunglasses he managed to keep on despite stripping off everything else, “So don’t. If you think you owe me.”

Honestly, you weren’t actually expecting him to take off his pants. You would have actually gone about this the right way if he hadn’t fucking taken his pants off when you told him to. You’ve pretty transparently been crushing on him, and he on you, for half this year already. You, for one, are done giving his cousin fuel for her so called novel.

You had thought he’d been so adamant about you coming over after school today to ask you out.

And instead he gives you a fucking dick in a box and you tell him to take off his pants.

Fucking great.

Wow you suck.

But jesus shit he’s attractive; face tilted down just a little, pinker than you’ve ever seen him before, even that one time when you were seven and he was convinced he didn’t need sunblock and burnt lobster red within the hour. You think he’s trying to hide his face, which is fucking dumb because he’s almost a full god damned foot taller than you. You set your dick box back on his desk and step in close to him, close enough that you can feel the tent his boner creates against your stomach when you breathe.

His blush, much to your amazement, darkens when you part your lips to speak, a little tremble running down his spine as you tilt your head up to make eye contact; “So here’s the plan,” you tell him, your voice deceptively even, despite your own jittered nerves, “We fuck and then you hope you were smart enough to order a harness for me too, and then we get dressed and go out for pizza or something.”

“Like a date?”

You shrug, “Yeah. Like a date.”

“Oh -- “ he sounds a little breathier than usual, but you’re magnanimous enough to allow that that might be because of the amount of blood currently residing in his crotch “ -- okay. Cool.”

His lips are a little damp, wet with spit out of nervous habit, when he ducks down a little to press them to yours. He’s delicate about it, tender like you’ll break, like you’re some swooning virgin. He’s too tall for you to get at on your own, so you can’t pin him, take control and shove his pussy footing around up his ass -- metaphorically -- but you can still wrap a hand around the back of his neck. You pull him down, closer, press his lips to yours harder, and nip at his mouth. He gasps, lips parting just enough for you to press your tongue in behind his teeth, and then he groans, his weight melting over you.

You reach up with your other hand to cup his face. His own hands come up to rest just above your waist, against your ribs, where you fold your vest over itself, fucking finally touching you with more than just his breath and his lips and the tip of his dick.

You stumble back far enough to perch your ass against the edge of his desk, dragging him with you. The extra couple of inches the desk boosts you makes it so much less awkward to kiss, his hands smoothing down your waist to rest at the top of your thighs. He’s hovering over you, close but pointedly to one side, like setting between your legs would be a _bad_ thing.

It wouldn’t be, not at all. In fact, you would definitely like him between your thighs. You’re already uncomfortably wet, your crotch slimy in your boxers.

You reach out to grab onto his dick, clumsily jerking him off through his own underwear. He chokes on air, pulling out of your kisses to press his face against your neck, his hands planted against the desk to either side of your hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, low and lewd, rolling his hips into your touch. He repeats the curse breathlessly a couple times more before he moans your name, right into your fucking ear.

An embarrassingly high noise escapes you and you want to both squeeze your thighs together and spread them to pull him closer so you have something to rock against.

“Fuck, Kat, _please_ ,” he breathes, lips against your neck, “Please can I fuck you? I’ll do anythin’, please.”

You’re trembling a little when you grind out, “Condom?”

He shakes his head and whines pitifully. The noise itself is obnoxious, like him in general, but he wants you _so bad_ , his entire aloof facade completely shattered. It’s an ego trip.

“M’ bro might have somethin’,” he says, pulling back. You can hear him swallowing before he leans in again, to press a desperate kiss to your lips.

He’s a little hesitant to step away, but you nudge him off, peel him off of you like scab so you can shrug out of your jacket. You half glower at him from under your brows, your hands at the collar of your shirt, ready to tug it off, and he takes the hint, shuffling to his door. He peeks his head out first, to make extra sure no one’s home, before he crosses the hall and sneaks into his brother’s room.

You can hear him searching through drawers as you strip down, your jeans left in a pile on top of your shoes. You stuff your socks into the pocket of your hoodie, habit since Dave’s house has always seemed to make off with at least one of them any time you’re over.

You end up with enough time to dig his flat sheet out from the mess of blankets on his bed, tugging it untucked. You fold it in quarters and lay it out across the middle, smoothing it nervously. You feel presumptuous, which is fucking _stupid_ since he _literally_ begged to get into your pants.

He lets out a tiny, triumphant laugh, apparently successful in his quest, comes back with a string of condoms and an adorable half grin, his cheeks two flustered pink triangles. He stops in the doorway, hesitates for just a second, and even with his stupid shades you can tell he’s looking you over. You scowl.

“I don’t know what’s more insulting, that you think we’ll fuck that many times, or that your stamina’s lacking enough that you’ll _need_ multiple attempts to get me off.”

He laughs at that, with a full, true, honest grin, and flips you off.

“Naw, babe, my dick’s so sweet you’ll be gagging for another taste the moment I pull out.”

“Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that.”

The banter still comes easy, and it soothes your nerves. Besides your parents and your brother, he’s the first person who knew you before to see you stripped down so far. Everyone else you’ve fucked met you after you started transitioning, didn’t have the memory of you in dresses with waist length hair.

But Dave looks you up and down again, stepping closer, and says, “Yeah, you look weird without a dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sort of the plan, isn’t it?”

It’s your turn to laugh, snorting as you pull him right up against you, hands on his hips. His dick is hard against your gut, sticky wet at the tip where he’s soaked through his boxers. He buries his nose in your hair, arms around your shoulders.

“So,” he says, hips twitching like he wants to rock against you, “How you wanna...?”

You roll your eyes, “Lay down, loser.”

“Aw, man, but you’re so snuggly. And tiny, jesus, you’re pocket sized.”

“Yeah, fuck you, we can’t all be beanpoles.”

He laughs, his usual breathy barely there sort, and it’s pretty novel to hear it with your face pressed against his chest. But then he’s unwinding himself from around you, fingers lingering down your arms. He lays back, ass smack dab in the middle of the sheet you put down.

He averts his eyes when you shuck your boxers down your thighs, even as he does the same. He also very pointedly doesn’t let his gaze stray any further down than your collarbone when you straddle his legs. His dick rises up to meet your hand and he hisses a breath in through his teeth when you give it a squeeze, thumb trailing through the precome gathered at the tip.

“Take off your stupid sunglasses already,” you tell him.

He laughs an airy, “Yessir,” and fumbles to knock the frames off his face. He gets them off, hooks them over the edge of his lamp the way he always has, eyes closed the entire time.

“I’m not gonna implode if you look at me, you know.”

His eyes stay hooded, half hidden by his pale lashes, but you can still see them flick up and down you again. He brushes his fingers across the bottom of your vest, where it pinches in a little.

“You gonna be okay in that?”

Your lip curls back from your teeth when you snort, “Yeah, I wear it all the time. I’d think, if I were to actually faint from it, I’da done it already -- “ you roll your eyes, “ -- not like you dicking me’d be strenuous enough anyway.”

“Would you quit insulting my sexual prowess, man, it’s kind of insulting.”

“Yeah, fapping doesn’t count as sexual prowess, shit for brains.” He flushes dark again, mouth pinching into a flat line and holy shit; “Wait, are you actually a _virgin_?”

“Like you have room to talk.”

You laugh, flat out and sarcastic, at that, “Thanks for assuming I’m so grossed out by my own body that I’d never consider getting laid, inadvertently saving myself for _you_.” Honestly, you did end up losing your virginity in a pique of self destructive self loathing, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, licking his lips.

“It’s -- whatever, it’s fine.”

His boner hasn’t deflated any, hot and pulsing in your hand, and it is. Fine. Whatever. You don’t give a shit. Most the world is grossly misinformed about.... basically everything, actually. It’s, whatever.

You adjust your grip, giving him a long, firm stroke, smirking at the way his back arches and his breath hitches. His hands have gravitated to your hips, thumbs tracing the crease of your thighs, and you drop your eyes from his face to his crotch.

His dick’s a dick, nestled in pubes four shades darker than his honey blond hair, and he has the stupidest tan line where his pants sit, the top of his thighs practically white compared to how dark your own are. Silently, he hands you a condom, pulled from the string he jacked from his brother. You open it, roll it down his length, shift forward over him.

One of his hands slides up your back, fingers fanned across your shoulder blade, nudging you until you’re bent over him, your free hand planted to the side. He tilts his chin up, just a little, and you swoop down to kiss him. You can feel him grinning into the kiss. He gasps, going slack jawed, when you squeeze his dick again, guiding him back to press into you.

You get another drawn out curse, his hands tightening against your skin, as you sink down.

He’s comfortably thick inside you, twitching when you sit back. You press a fist against your teeth to muffle your moan as you rock your hips over his.

He keeps on spewing curses, gasping his running commentary of whatever comes to mind. It’s surprisingly flattering, the way he stutters your name, alternating between hilarious and adorable in how he’s so vocal, all, “Fuck you’re gorgeous, you’re so hot, so tight, jesus shit, Karkat.”

His bony hips dig into the back of your thighs, his fingers gripping your knees so hard the tips of them have turned white. His face is slack, head tilted back against his pillows, but you can actually see the muscles in his stomach twitch. His thighs are tense too, hips shifting up just a bit and he shifts from complimenting you to begging, “Please, please move, ride me, fuck me, oh god, please move.”

You lift up, just a little, tilt your pelvis forward as you sink back down, your toes curling as you angle him towards just the right spot. You repeat the motion, over and over, riding him tortuously slow so you can enjoy the way he drags at your insides.

He fumbles for the hand you’ve planted against his ribs, pulling it away from his chest to twine his fingers in with yours, squeezing before he tugs you forward. His kisses are sloppy and desperate, pressed against your lips and your chin and your jaw until his nose is nuzzled against your cheek and he pants into your ear, “Fuck, you’re shaking so hard.”

You are, trembling and pulled tight as his hands squeeze around your waist, his hips arching up to jackknife into you. You breathe a laugh against his jaw and try not to look at the cleavage your vest leaves you with at this angle.

You gasp when he slips out of you, hands on your hips to guide you over, on your back next to him. He clambers back between your thighs, all limbs and no coordination, head bowed so he can watch as he pushes back into you. One of his elbows is locked, arm straight and tense to support his weight, his other hand smoothing down the outside of our thigh to squeeze at your hip, and his eyes are glued to where you’re connected.

“Dude, your crotch is _glistening_ ,” he breathes, half laughing. You groan in embarrassment, mashing your hand against his face. He laughs harder, “And I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs, as I removed my source of Grecian power.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

“My pole gives cause to storms and quakes,” he punctuates his words with a hard thrust, making you gasp and laugh, and you punch him in the shoulder, “But ‘tis not massive, I am no Othello.”

“I am going to punch you in the dick!”

He has the audacity to _pshaw_ at you, grinning, “You like the d though, yer not gonna punch the d.”

“I’m going to fucking punch the d if you keep referring to it as the d.”

He laughs, tucking his face against your neck. His breath is hot and heavy against your skin, and you moan when he starts sucking hickies into your flesh. He groans in turn when you wrap your arms around his back, clawing at his shoulders.

“Pain slut,” you hiss, nose against his collarbone.

“Yeah, fuck you.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” He bites at your neck in retaliation, but you continue to snark anyway, “Ah -- I hadn’t noticed.”

You drag your nails down his back and the rhythm of his hips stutters as he trembles and gasps, “Shit. _Fuck_ , that’s not fair.”

You snort a laugh, parting your lips to make a retort, but he breathes, “Want you to come too,” into your ear, quiet and sweet. You tug one knee up towards your chest instead, your breath hitching when he slides home deeper. He gets the hint too, looping his arm around your leg, pinning it up against his shoulder.

You cover your mouth with one palm when you let slip a high pitched, squeak of a moan and he noses at your jugular, murmuring, “Shh, no, babe, don’t be shy, you’re fuckin’ perfect, ‘s cool, don’t worry.”

You cling a little closer, forehead against his shoulder, and tell him to shut up, except your voice catches on his name and it comes out as more of a groan than anything.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps in return, decidedly _not_ shutting up, “Fuck that was hot. Say my name again, please, babe, fuck, _please_?”

“Oh my god, you’re such a needy bitch.”

He laughs, drags his tongue along the edge of your ear, and whispers another _please_. You sputter, blushing hard, and hiss, “Fuck you,” instead. You can’t, not if he keeps insisting you do.

And he groans at that, saying, “Dude you are so fuckin’ hot. You get all raspy, didju know that? And it’s so fuckin’ hot.”

“Oh god, shut up!”

He noses at your cheek and you can feel his grin, but he listens this time. The only sound he makes is the sound against his hips slapping against your thighs and his heavy breathing, and you’re close, so fucking close, now that he’s shut his trap and isn’t distracting you with pointless banter.

(Not pointless, reassuring, driving home the thought that maybe he likes you, despite -- )

He tucks your other knee against his shoulder too, sitting back and you gasp a curse at the change in angle, arching up under him.

“C’mon, babe, please, come for me, Karkat, please babe.”

He presses his lips hard against the side of one of your knees, shuddering as he thrusts, eyebrows squinched together. His movement stutters to a halt for half a breath before he leans back over you, folding you double.

A startled, too loud curse pops from between your lips, the change in angle doing wonders. He kisses the side of your face and you bite your lip as your lungs seize up and your back arches. 

You hiss out a long stream of air after, relaxing back into his bed, and he laughs, “Jesus, I think _I_ felt that.”

You can’t be assed to harass him back, especially not when he nudges his face against your neck, pressing kisses to your skin. Your boneless thighs have slid to the sides, wedged against his ribs instead of his shoulders.

He’s still balls deep in you, still hard, but apparently content to just cuddle. You don’t mind so much. He’s warm everywhere he’s pressed against you, courteous enough to not flatten you with his weight. His breath is his against your neck and his skin pops up with goosebumps when you skim your fingers down his spine.

It’s nice.

Eventually, he pushes himself up. The shift in position makes you gasp, oversensitive, his dick _still_ fucking hard and deviating in how it lay within you with every move. He drops a peck against your lips and pulls out. Your toes curl, knees squeezing around his ribs, hips arching like they’re trying to follow him all on their own. He sits back, knees still at your hips, smiles just a little when you scowl and lock your legs together.

He just leans forward to rest his chin on your knees instead, one eyebrow quirking up.

“So was it good for you too, baby?”

Your first instinct is to kick him. He jerks back quick enough that you don’t knee him in the face, but your foot still clips his shoulder, and he lets out a loud squawk of laughter.

“Wow, asshole.”

“Oh my god, are you actually incapable of shutting your facehole for more than two seconds?”

“Wanna find out?”

You kick him again and this time he slides off the bed to stay out of range, grinning. You stay boneless on his bed for a little longer, long enough for him to get dressed and for you to feel cold. He climbs back onto the bed with his shirt caught around his waist and his jeans still undone to kiss you again, still grinning.

“Pray tell, are you actually an Egbert in disguise?” you ask as you sit up, your damp thighs sticking together. Dave sticks his tongue out at you, lips still curled into a smile, as he buttons his jeans. You watch the way he tilts his hips out subtly while he does it, all unconscious sex appeal.

But then, he quoted a comedian’s riff on freaking _Shakespeare_ whilst copulating, so you are not taken by his good looks and smooth moves.

He catches you staring, apparently, because he says, “Yeah, told you you’d be gagging for my sweet ass dick again already.”

You snort, “Nope, simply wondering how you could be proud of something _so small_ and _so fast_.”

His jaw drops and you can literally watch as he tries to put together a comeback.

“No, dude, I’m pretty sure I can see the residue of how great my dick is still sticking to your thighs.”

You open your mouth to retort in turn but there’s nothing you can say to that. You could deny it but -- you pick at a spot where your spunk’s already started to dry -- it is kind of obvious.

He’s gathered your clothes for you, dumps the armful of it onto the bed next to you, nudging his forehead against yours. His shades are still on the lamp, but his eyes are downcast, shadowed completely by his eyelashes, and you can see the tinge of pink gathering on his cheeks again. His thumb strokes your jaw oh so very delicately, and he licks his lips.

“That was okay, right?”

You tilt your face enough to kiss him, and your words catch in your throat for a heartbeat before you breathe out, “Yeah. It was.”

“Cool.”

And he steps back, turns around to fuck with his computer, bent over at the waist like he’s giving you privacy or something. Which he is, you realize, despite having literally just fucked your brains out.

“I think you’ll find I was smart enough to order you a harness,” he says, smugly, shifting his weight just enough to make his hips swing, “Also did you wanna order a pizza and watch stupid movies on my phone in my car, or am I gonna have to find somewhere we can actually eat pizza inside of?”

“You have to take me out to a real restaurant, Strider, I’ll settle for nothing less.” The box your dick came in is under your clothes and, sure enough, he did order a harness. You’ll have to fuck with it later, but it’s enough to knot it so it fits around your hips, and your new packer slips through the ring with no problems. Except -- “Jesus dick shitting christ, this thing goes down to my _knees_.”

Dave glances back over his shoulder, sputtering in laughter. You flip him off, slipping into your boxers -- you’re still inflicted with post coital swamp crotch, but you think you might just want to wait until you get home for a shower. Dave looks back again while you’re pulling up your jeans, twists a little more to better check you out.

His lips twist back into a grin, more conceited than shit eating, and says, “Yep, that dick definitely suits you.”

You flip him off and finish getting dressed.

He kisses you every couple of steps on the way to his car, and then in his car, and then at every stoplight. And then he kicks you under the table at the pizzeria, showing you his phone and the texts from his brother congratulating him on getting laid and his subsequent corrections on the details.

**Author's Note:**

> the shakespeare dave quotes is actually bo burnham's [sonnet 155](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=kluRAB3C0w0#t=169s)
> 
> also now with a [shiny new sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2555585)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ambigram](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555585) by [sumomomochi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi)




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